


Solids

by wheel_pen



Series: Miscellaneous Sherlock Stories [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Daisy (wheel_pen), M/M, Sci-Fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3946819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty and Sherlock are having a stand-off at the pool, where John is wired with explosives. Then things start to get strange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solids

**Author's Note:**

> Daisy is my original character who is mainly found in my Vampire Diaries stories. However she does tend to pop up other places, for her own mysterious reasons.
> 
> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

John was terrified.

There was no other way to put it. He was so terrified he very nearly couldn’t think, couldn’t stand, couldn’t breathe. He was almost more terrified by the idea of losing control of his body, of not knowing what it would do, than he was of the original situation that had caused the terror.

And he was not a man unused to terror.

Moriarty had thought of everything, had prepared for everything. Even Sherlock, the most brilliant man John had ever met, struggled to keep up with him, always one step behind. And Moriarty didn’t mind killing people, lots of people, any people, to play his game. How could anyone fight against that? Even the most extreme act John could think of—grabbing Moriarty himself, giving Sherlock a chance to run—had been anticipated and thwarted, by a man who mocked all notions of self-sacrifice. John could see no way out of this.

“I played your game, I solved your puzzles, what more do you want from me?” Sherlock demanded. To John’s ears he sounded slightly desperate, a disheartening sign.

“Oh, Sherlock, there’s so _much_ I want from you!” Moriarty claimed gleefully. He was somehow inappropriate without actually being salacious. “I think we could have a lot of fun together, alleviate the complete and utter BOREDOM of this place—“

A throat cleared, echoing in the high-ceilinged room, and John’s eyes popped open—he hadn’t realized he’d shut them. There, on the other side of the pool, stood—

“Daisy?!” Sherlock and Moriarty chorused in surprise, and John’s eyes shifted to Moriarty—how did _he_ know Daisy?

“Brought some back-up, I see,” Moriarty sneered to Sherlock. “Didn’t think you could handle me on your own?”

Sherlock’s gun didn’t waver. “I assumed she was with _you_ ,” he countered coolly. “You two have more in common.” This was not a compliment, and it surprised John—he’d always thought of Daisy as an ally.

Moriarty let out a high-pitched bark of laughter. “Oh, she only kills people in BORING ways,” he dismissed.

“Daisy kills people?” John heard a voice saying, and realized it was his own. He did not remember giving himself the okay to speak, and regretted it when both Sherlock and Moriarty turned to look at him, as though they’d forgotten he was there. The subject was not really relevant now, was it?

“If you’re through talking about me,” Daisy said pointedly, and they all jumped because suddenly she was _right there_ , on their side of the pool. “Actually I’m here to get John.” She pushed past Sherlock’s gun and went to John, beginning to unfasten the vest that held the explosives to him.

“There’s a sniper,” he warned her quickly, searching for the deadly red dot.

None appeared. “I know,” she replied easily, unperturbed. Her intervention was so improbable John didn’t dare feel relief yet.

Moriarty and Sherlock exchanged a look, both equally bewildered by this turn of events. Then their body language changed—relaxed, almost—and Sherlock lowered his gun as Moriarty turned away.

“Daisy, we’re having a stand-off!” Moriarty complained as she pulled off John’s coat. He sounded downright petulant. “And I was winning!”

“You weren’t winning,” Sherlock argued, also sounding peeved. “You were just speechifying.” Moriarty squawked indignantly.

Daisy eased the bomb vest off John’s shoulders and he staggered, both from the decreased weight and the flood of relief. Sherlock quickly moved to catch him—after handing his gun to Moriarty to hold. “Easy, John, easy,” he said, guiding him to the floor to lean against the wall. “Just breathe, you’re alright.”

John thought maybe he was delusional from stress. But no, there was Moriarty with the gun Sherlock had been carrying, twirling impatiently at the edge of the pool. John laid a hand on Sherlock’s arm, feeling its solid warmth ground him. “What is going on?” he asked, panting.

Still kneeling before him Sherlock turned to Daisy. “What _is_ going on?” he repeated to her.

“She just likes to spoil things,” Moriarty pouted. It would have been funny, if not for the gun and the bomb and the snipers.

“I didn’t want John to get hurt,” Daisy replied simply. John could get behind that reasoning.

“I wasn’t really gonna hurt him!” Moriarty claimed. “I just wanted Sherlock to grovel a little, then I was gonna give him back!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That’s _so_ unimaginative, Jim,” he criticized in a familiar tone. “It’s been so impressive so far, and _that_ was your endgame?”

John didn’t think it was a good idea to scoff at Moriarty, considering the aforementioned gun, bomb, and snipers. But he _was_ really confused. “Sorry, what—“

Daisy cut him off. “Your assassin is unreliable,” she judged.

She might have slapped Moriarty across the face, such was his reaction of offense. “No he’s not!” he sputtered. “He’s completely under my thumb—“ As he said this he made a thumb’s-up gesture.

A sharp crack echoed through the room and Sherlock jerked sideways, collapsing to the floor. John scrambled over to him, his heart stopping, and saw a bullet hole between his eyes, blood beginning to trickle from it.

“No,” he said dully, as though he could will the universe to reverse itself. “No, no, Sherlock, you can’t—you—“ Rational thought fled his mind and he reached down to carefully cradle his friend’s head, the dark curls sticky at the back where the bullet had exited. The way his eyes were closed he could just be sleeping, or thinking—he wouldn’t want to be disturbed.

Dimly, in the background, John thought he heard Moriarty screaming in anger. A moment ago that was what terrified him, but now nothing else mattered. Someone might as well shoot him, too, because he wasn’t going to move, couldn’t move, had no reason in the world to move from this spot, staring down at—

Blue eyes. Bright blue eyes that had popped open and were staring back at him. The hole between them sealed up as John watched and when he finally pulled his hand away there was no blood on it. His mouth opened and closed several times, but he couldn’t formulate any words.

Sherlock sat up, perfectly fine if slightly— _embarrassed_ was really the only word John could think of. He glared at Moriarty defensively, running a hand through his mussed hair. “What was _that_ about?” he demanded.

“Unreliable assassins,” Daisy repeated, unimpressed.

“ _I_ didn’t tell him to do that!” Moriarty insisted. “They need some more _molding_ , apparently—“ Two men had appeared at the end of the pool and remained there, looking rather nervous as Moriarty glared at them menacingly.

“Well, it could have been John, and _that_ would’ve been a mess, wouldn’t it?” Sherlock snapped, irritated.

“That wasn’t my plan!”

“Sorry, but—“ Well, John really _wasn’t_ sorry. “What the h—l is going on?” He glanced between Sherlock, Daisy, _and_ Moriarty, willing to take an explanation from _anyone_ at this point. Though some he would trust more than others.

Sherlock sighed as if finding him exasperating—not an unusual occurrence, but not appreciated right now given John’s day. “John, why don’t you just _stop thinking_ for a while,” Sherlock told him, appallingly, “and when we get home, I’ll think of a good explanation for you.” He popped up to his feet, facing Moriarty. “Now sit there and be quiet.”

John stood, jaw tight. “No, I’m not going to stop thinking, or sit there and be quiet,” he snapped. “I had a _bomb_ strapped to me, okay?! And you just got shot in the head! So can someone please tell me—“ He stopped when he saw Sherlock and Moriarty staring at him, open-mouthed with shock. It occurred to him that perhaps he _still_ had the bomb strapped to him, and was just hallucinating. If so, well-done, brain. Very vivid.

Then Sherlock shut his mouth and gave John a narrow look, tilting his head slightly as if concentrating hard on him. If he’d had x-ray vision John would’ve been thoroughly scanned by now. Instead John shrugged and shook his head, not getting whatever Sherlock was trying to convey.

“C’mere, Johnny boy,” Moriarty summoned with a smirk.

John looked around for evidence of the snipers, though he suspected they were the two men waiting at the edge of the pool. “And if I don’t?” he questioned warily, just in case.

Moriarty gave him the same sort of intense look Sherlock had given him, which John found highly unnerving. When he turned to Sherlock, though, he saw that the other man had started pacing and looked vaguely ill.

“Sherlock—“

He was cut off by Moriarty hooting loudly. “He’s a Solid!” he declared in surprised delight, as if this was somehow significant. “Oh, Sherlock, you’ve had a Solid living right under your nose—“ he mocked.

“What’s a—“ John started to ask.

“You knew!” Sherlock accused Daisy viciously. “How?”

“That’s my job,” she shrugged, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Why didn’t you _tell_ us?”

“That’s _not_ my job,” she pointed out.

“Stop laughing!” Sherlock snarled at Moriarty, who’d been chortling like a drunken baboon. “You almost got him killed!”

Moriarty silenced immediately. “Oh, you’re right,” he realized dully. Then he turned around and shot the two snipers with Sherlock’s gun.

John jumped at the noise, then staggered back against the wall again. “J---s!” The terror that had begun to recede came rushing back.

At least Sherlock was able to steady him immediately, one hand on his ribs, the other on his wrist. After a moment John realized he was checking his pulse. “Stop it,” Sherlock told Moriarty sharply. “You’re scaring him.”

“You’re _all_ scaring me!” John was not ashamed to admit this. “Sherlock. Explain this to me!” His eyes begged his friend to help him make sense of the world again.

But the blue eyes that stared back seemed more alien than ever before. “John, I don’t want you to worry,” he said in a low voice that was probably supposed to be soothing. “I’m not going to let anything hurt you.” This, at least, John trusted, and he nodded tightly.

“He _would_ be rather hard to put back together again,” Moriarty singsonged, appearing suddenly right beside them. He looked over John like he was a juicy piece of steak, medium-rare.

“Back off,” Sherlock told him evenly, not taking his eyes from John.

“Hey, hey, hey, brother,” Moriarty countered theatrically, “we _all_ get a piece of him.” He licked his lips obscenely, and John tried to concentrate on Sherlock’s steady presence and promise.

“I’m to take him to the Elders,” Daisy informed them. “Everyone will want their share.”

“Share of _me_?” John deduced faintly. He wasn’t sure if they were talking about sex, cannibalism, or something else he didn’t even want to contemplate, but it definitely did not sound pleasant.

“No,” Sherlock contradicted firmly. He finally looked away, to Daisy. “You’re not taking him. You can’t.”

“Can’t?” she repeated, arching an eyebrow. The word seemed loaded with significance.

“Can’t?” Moriarty parroted as well, with more disbelief. “Oh no you don’t. _You_ didn’t know, not until just now!”

Realizing it was pointless to ask for clarification, John merely glanced between all of them helplessly, his gaze always returning to Sherlock’s. The amount of time John thought he’d lost him had been brief, but it was seared onto his consciousness, and his hand clamped down on Sherlock’s when he felt it moving away.

“I didn’t _have_ to know,” Sherlock reminded the others, “in order to claim him.” John’s eyebrows shot up at the phrasing.

“No, no, you can’t claim him _now_ ,” Moriarty protested indignantly. “And don’t tell me you claimed him _before_ , we all know they’re completely beneath your notice! They’re _ants_ , Sherlock!” He stomped on the floor loudly, the sound echoing. “Ants!”

Daisy was calmer about the idea—whatever it was. “Have you been physically intimate?” she asked.

John’s eyes widened slightly but he held his tongue, even as he felt the tips of his ears burn. Sherlock had always given the very strong impression he wasn’t interested in _that_ kind of thing, which was a little disa—wait, had he been about to think ‘disapp—‘

“No, we hadn’t gotten around to it yet!” Sherlock replied to her defensively. John did not fail to notice the qualifier.

“Emotionally intimate?” Daisy tried.

“That would entail him _having_ emotions,” Moriarty sneered. Sherlock rolled his eyes and John frowned, offended on his behalf, although he _could_ sort of see what he meant.

Daisy gave John a thoughtful look. He was getting rather tired of those today. “He killed for him,” she noted. “And he was willing to die for him.”

“He was a soldier, they do that for anyone,” Moriarty dismissed, insultingly. “Oh, come on, Daisy, you’re not buying this!” he whined when she didn’t respond.

“I don’t have to buy _anything_ ,” she refuted. “It’s a clear yes or no answer.”

There was a pause. Sherlock was still gazing at John like he was trying to convey all the secrets of the universe with just his eyes. “Well which is it, yes or no?” snapped Moriarty intrusively.

“It’s not clear yet,” Daisy shot back.

Suddenly a look of dangerous determination appeared in Sherlock’s eyes and he slid a hand behind John’s neck, pulling him in close to press their lips together. The timing, the setting, the company all seemed horribly inappropriate, but how else would Sherlock do something, and John thought of him with the bullet hole between his eyes, and then his own hands gripped Sherlock’s hair and their mouths opened, tongues snaking out to taste and touch.

Dimly, in the background, John thought he heard Daisy say something like, “It’s clear,” and Moriarty whinging about it not being fair. No, it wasn’t fair, John decided, that he’d been living with Sherlock for nearly a year and they’d wasted all that time, stupidly, when they could have been—

Sherlock pulled away, which John protested, but then appreciated when he realized he ought to prioritize breathing above kissing, if only temporarily. “I’m not going anywhere, John,” Sherlock murmured, and John nodded and let his hands slip down to his arms. Sherlock’s eyes were even brighter blue than normal and his lips pinker; John couldn’t stop staring at them, especially when they quirked up in a rare smile.

“I’m going to vomit,” Moriarty complained in disgust, sullying the mood slightly. “Why should _he_ get a Solid all to himself?”

“Solids attract other Solids,” Daisy reminded him consolingly. “Keep an eye on him and see who turns up.”

Moriarty appeared right in John’s personal space with a crazy, bug-eyed stare. “Oh, a lot of people will be keeping an eye on _you_ , Johnny boy,” he promised/threatened.

“Out,” Sherlock ordered, his command all the more intimidating for being softly spoken.

Moriarty sniffed as though it was no big deal to him, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. Then he turned to Daisy. “Well. Fancy a shag?”

She was unoffended by his proposition. “Buy me dinner first?” she countered with a coy smile. John felt like _he_ might vomit, knowing everything Moriarty had done.

“I’ll buy you dinner after.”

“Somewhere in the middle?”

“Deal,” he finally agreed, and they walked away, arm in arm.

“Sherlock,” John said, and the other man refocused completely on him. The effect was almost, but not quite, overpowering. “I want to go home now.” Surely that simple thing could be accomplished, at least.

“Yes?”

“Right now,” John repeated, so there could be no mistake.

“Okay.” And then they were standing in the living room at Baker Street.

John stumbled and Sherlock caught him as he blinked around in wonder. “Did I—did I pass out?” he asked, bewildered yet again.

“No,” Sherlock claimed. “You said you wanted to go home right now, so here we are.”

He seemed to find this statement sufficient. John did not. “How did you do that?” he wanted to know.

Sherlock ducked to kiss him again, only lightly on the lips then he trailed along John’s jaw to his ear. “The same way I can do lots of other things you’re going to like,” he purred. “Shall I demonstrate?”

“G-d, absolutely,” John sighed, suddenly caring much less about the mechanics behind it, or maybe metaphysics.

Sherlock backed them into his bedroom and pressed John against the closed door, their hands and lips everywhere. “Sorry,” he muttered in John’s ear. “The only way we’ll get any privacy is if they think we’re going to have sex.”

There were lots of things John could have asked about in that statement. The one he chose was—“Aren’t we going to have sex?” in a disappointed tone.

“Do you want to?” Sherlock asked curiously. “I thought you might have questions—“ John gave him a look, thinking it obvious. “Well, it’s just that you were almost killed today, John,” he reminded him, “and I didn’t want to take advantage of your emotional state—“

Sherlock had picked a h—l of a time to start being noble. John grabbed his collar to pull him close and slid a leg between his, grinding down. He was rewarded with a gasp.

“Sherlock,” he hissed, “I was almost killed today. I think you need to take advantage of my emotional state. _Now_.”

Sherlock did not need much convincing. “Questions later,” he decided, and plunged in.


End file.
